


it’s a metaphor

by aeitric



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Vague Everything, bad sperm aiming, college partay, general vagueness, poor nut direction, vague blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeitric/pseuds/aeitric
Summary: Ophelias sneaks into a party, stares at himself, and finds a boy.





	it’s a metaphor

When a door closes, a window opens. It’s a question of turning around and walking away or hauling yourself onto the sill and climbing in anyways. There’s no way of knowing which will yield the best results, but there is always reward in risk.

In this case, Ophelias decided that being turned away at the door for being under twenty one was an opportunistic chance to wriggle through the bathroom window; it had been precariously teetering on open and closed, only stopped by a rock ground in the corner. _Maybe_ , he thought as he guided his hips skillfully through the gap between glass and wood, _I can write about this in my autobiography one day, and I’ll seem real deep and philosophical_.

He used to be a good kid. Really, he’d swear on his own grave. A real ass kisser, and he’d say it himself. He didn’t really have friends unless you wanted to count the librarian — which he did, with pride. He was good at keeping his head down and ignoring the wall he kept bumping into.

The wall being a metaphor, of course. Ophelias enjoyed metaphors more than anything. He could make something seem like something else, even if they had no correlation to each other. His ability to produce quality metaphors was a lawn mower moving on overgrown grass.

He glanced at himself in the mirror before making his subtle exit from the bathroom. His hair, thin and wispy, stuck out at every direction. He’d gradually grown to accept that he permanently looked like he’d been rubbing balloons over his scalp to make the strands float a little. He still tried sticking them down, anyways, as an afterthought. It didn’t work. Obviously.

He turned to the mirror to inspect himself in unusual, dull silence. His skin looked translucent in the oddly reflective white glow of the clicking lightbulb above his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put makeup on, but before he’d left, he grabbed his sister’s mascara on the way out. It was more of his kleptomania acting out than an urge to look presentable, but as he stared at himself in the mirror, he considered deeply.

He sipped his hand in his pocket. A sigh of relief. It was still there, right where he’d tucked it. He pulled it out and unscrewed the cap — lid? — and stared at the wand. He awkwardly stared at himself as he shakily applied the black, sticky substance to his eyelashes. His mouth hung open a little. He sure didn’t feel like he was lookin’ great.

As he pulled back though, and admired his handiwork, he had to admit that it really did make his eyes grow a little larger than usual. He wanted to keep looking at himself, so he fumbled in his bag, found a loose cigarette that still held most of it’s contents, and lit it from the underside as he stared at himself.

Comforting was a word that came to mind. Being alone with himself, silent, watching the way his eyebrows raised as he pulled in smoke and fell as he blew from his nose. He didn’t want to stink up the bathroom, though, out of courtesy, so he put the mascara in his pocket and walked out.

College parties kept Ophelias from shooting himself in the head. It probably sounded a bit too dramatic, and there were other things that also kept him from voluntarily kicking his bucket, but the rank stench of alcohol, vomit and sweat was like a summer daisy blooming through the cracks in a patch of concrete. He silently cursed himself for using a simile. _Maybe next time I’ll use a metaphor_ , he thought to console himself.

There was someone standing at the bottom of the stairs as he walked down, staring over the sea of fresh adults making poor life choices. Ophelias cleated his throat politely. _Was it really polite_? He thought. _Clearing one’s throat isn’t very kind. It’s just letting the other person acknowledge your presence and do something about said presence._

They still didn’t move, even after his entire internal monologue. It was mildly upsetting. He was about to clear his throat again, despite his recent qualms with doing such things, when the guy standing at the bottom of the stairs turned around. “Sorry, was I in your way?”

“You’re still in my way.” And, despite himself, Ophelias found himself smiling. “Would it be alright if I asked your name?”

“I’m Dimitri.” Ophelias was offered a hand, and shook it delightedly. He didn’t even mind that it was slightly damp. Dimitri, as he’d just learned, was smiling warmly back at him. “I’m hoping you have a name to put to your eyes?”

“Cute, but that barely made sense. Of course I have a name.” He wished he could shake his hand again. Dimitri’s hand had engulfed his, making him feel pretty small. Well, pretty and small. Both. Both was good too. “I’m Ophelias, but you can call me Opie, if you’d like. No one does, ‘cept for my sister, but you have permission if you’d be interested in doing so.”

He didn’t realize he was rambling until a pair of warm lips hit his, and he had to mentally compartmentalize his state of being. That mascara had really done it’s job, or Dimitri really wanted him to shut the fuck up, but either way he gladly allowed the other to take the reins.

In a matter of seconds they were a flurry of joined arms and teeth, two being one with ease. Ophelias usually wasn’t so direct with his interest, emotionally or physically, but he sure didn’t mind switching things up for the dark haired stranger. In some way it almost felt right, to place his hands on Dimitri’s nape, to allow himself be pushed against the wall adjacent to the stairs. Others filtered past them, most not even sparing a glance in their direction.

There was a leg between his thighs, an expertly placed knee, that ground against him in an off rhythm tempo. Ophelias pulled away from the heated kiss to look down at the entanglement of their legs. “That hurts.” He murmured, more of a pointed direction than it was meant to scold. The knee righted itself and he smiled. “There you go.”

“You look stupid. And Ophelias is a really stupid name.” Dimitri’s breath was warm, fanning across his face, making Ophelias struggle not to cough. It smelled like stale water. It was gross. “Your breath stinks.” He responded, head still flush against the wall. They ended up in a bedroom, somebody’s bedroom, by the looks of things. Not that either of them particularly cared about the contents of the room.

He used to dream of candles, soft music, and missionary sex at nine at night. It was his white picket fence daydream, to be loved by someone who just barely managed to tolerate his presence. “Stop squeezing my balls so hard.” He snapped at Dimitri, who mocked his words in a higher pitch and squeezed them harder. It hurt. Ophelias found himself not caring.

It was almost a force of habit, the way he tolerated just about everything with relative ease. Though, he made sure to mentally note, Dimitri seemed to try and make an effort to be a little more gentle after their bickering. As he sucked cock, he thought about his face in the mirror. He wondered what it would like like with a piercing, somewhere that would make his parents angry.

Sperm landed in his eye. He settled on a septum.

**Author's Note:**

> this is very different than my past anime fan fiction from a few years ago but i hope you like doing it anyways :) i’ll write more if anyone wants it, but otherwise i’m pretty comfortable with letting it be.


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